


Playing Fast and Loose

by VirtualCarrot (Kaoro)



Series: Ace Omens' Spice Rack [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (not THAT wrong), Asexual Relationship, Bondage, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Other, Scene Gone Wrong, light pain kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26559982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaoro/pseuds/VirtualCarrot
Summary: Being restricted was hard enough but even worse was the sting of the rope. Not because the pain was strong but because Aziraphale enjoyed it.Or the one where they try bondage, Aziraphale freaks out because he likes it and Crowley freaks out because Aziraphale freaks out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ace Omens' Spice Rack [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930948
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44
Collections: Spice Rack





	Playing Fast and Loose

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: cayenne pepper

Hemp fiber usually has a soft, earthly smell but, freshly unpacked, the stench of industrial plastic tends to linger. Crowley had waxed most of it away, the dear, and the rope that ran elegant loops around Aziraphale’s arms and chest was fragrant with essences of bergamot and almond oil. The angel tested the hold of the knots yet again, braced himself stubbornly against the unyielding result. His bindings would have been considered loose by a seasoned rigger but even then there was only so much motion the rope would accommodate. It bit into Aziraphale’s flesh in raised welts even through his clothes.

“It hurts,” he muttered, squirming on his mound of floor pillows.

Crowley instantly stopped pretending he was busy with his phone and sat up on the couch. “Do you want to stop?”

Much to his own surprise, Aziraphale found the answer wasn’t as obvious as he might have thought. Might have hoped. He did not appreciate his own uncertainty.

“I– No? I don’t understand. It hurts and I’m _enjoying_ it.”

Even though he had never liked suffering. Nor punishment. Or degradation.

Crowley threw his legs out and leaned forward, a long line of tension about to spring to Aziraphale’s side at a moment’s notice. Left foot tapping out an anxious beat against the floorboards, he narrowed his eyes. “You knew it was gonna hurt, though.”

“Yes but I… not like this.”

Crowley nodded to himself. “We should stop,” he said and, much to Aziraphale’s dismay, jumped to his feet.

“What, no, wait!”

In his rush to stall Crowley, Aziraphale forgot about the bindings. He tried to gesture and the arms tied in his back resisted him. He yanked at them and the snare of the rope snapped him back into himself. From then on, struggling was mere instinct. And with each struggle the ties dug deeper into him, until even his chest was constrained by them. Like a snake suffocating its prey. He fought for breath, fought for a better range of motion, fought for his own composure but the rope remained there, implacable. The more he fought, the tighter the trap.

Helplessness was not a state he found much solace in. 

Having obediently come to a halt a few feet away, Crowley watched it all with sardonic frustration.

“Oh yes, I can see you’re doing just fine,” he hissed.

With a last, vain attempt at triumphing over the rope, Aziraphale sagged in defeat.

And with his surrender, the rope softened. The knots released his reddening skin, the bindings over his chest loosened. He could breathe. Free from pressure, the warm welts left on his skin tingled pleasantly.

It was disconcerting.

“I just… I don’t understand why I like something that hurts.” He sounded small and lost. Trying to hide his shame.

From the sour slant of his lips, whatever understanding Crowley came to at these words did not appear anywhere near pleasant. He sucked in his teeth before speaking, getting rid of the bitter taste of realization. “You thought you’d just muscle through it.”

“Oh, don’t say it like that. It’s not as if I’ve never experienced discomfort bef–”

“We’re stopping.”

“What, no, I can do this.”

“ _We_ ’re stopping.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Crowley, I’m perfectly fine.”

“Then _I_ don’t want this. Not like this.”

Taken aback, Aziraphale blinked. And, true enough, now free from the haze of his own panic, he found Crowley’s face quite a few shades paler than usual and his eyes wild in the way of inner turmoil. He was shaking, too, discreet tremors at the tip of his fingers. Crowley followed his gaze to them, scowled and shoved them out of sight under his armpits, arms crossed.

“Can I free you, now?” he asked, voice a strange mixture of dramatic petulance, put upon to be doing Aziraphale this service, and genuine distress at not being allowed to do it sooner.

Aziraphale let his gaze fall to the safety shears on the coffee table. He shook his head to himself, only realizing too late how it might look to Crowley, who went even more tight-wound in a way that made him look taller, as if stretched thin by apprehension. The angel smiled gently in reassurance.

“I think I’d really appreciate it if you could undo these knots, yes.”

Crowley fell to his knees by his side and complied.

The rope was thick and wieldy. As constricting as it was to Aziraphale, it did not resist being untied. And, most of all, with each loosened knot, Crowley himself unwound.

When he was done, he coiled the rope in careless loops that he threw aside so his hands were free to roll up Aziraphale’s sleeves. Flushed streaks on bruised skin came out into the light, the sight of which had him sucking in a breath between his teeth. He traced a red line with the tip of his finger, a barely there touch, afraid of causing more harm. The expression on his face was more painful than all of the welts put together.

Aziraphale took hold of his forearm and tugged gently.

“Come here,” he said, already feeling Crowley allow himself to be tumbled into his lap.

“I’m not the one who needs comfort here,” the demon muttered. In spite of his words, he wound himself around Aziraphale, hugging him to himself, and tucked his face in the crook of his neck. “You were unhappy.”

The angel sighed. “I wasn’t. Not exactly. I just felt– Oh, I don’t know. Weak–”

“Aziraphale, no–”

“–frustrated. But when I wasn’t fighting it, it also felt good. Painful, but in a good way. And it was a bit distressing, to find that I like pain.”

“Why even do it, if you didn’t think you’d like it?”

Aziraphale carded a hand through the red hair tickling his cheek with an absent-minded hum. “I was curious, I suppose. And I wanted to see if I could do it. I guess I overestimated myself.”

“You _didn’t_ , angel, you’re– I’m sorry I freaked out. I just… I didn’t expect you to dislike it.” Most of all, he hadn’t expected to be the cause of that distress.

He didn’t need to say it out loud; it was clear in every fold of his body, every quiver of his voice.

“It’s just that–” Aziraphale pressed a cheek to the side of Crowley’s head to find courage for his own confession, “–It didn’t fit what I thought I knew about myself. And it’s not very angelic of me, either. Enjoying pain.”

He couldn’t help the wry tone of his voice.

Crowley didn’t reply with words, not immediately, just wrapped his arms even tighter around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Welcomed the angel into the curve of his own body and hoped the bony angles wouldn’t hinder his comfort.

They didn’t.

Only after a long, silent hug did he finally find his voice again.

“Who the fuck cares, Aziraphale? You enjoy whatever you enjoy. It doesn’t change anyth– I’ll bring you cake, alright? I’ll take you to restaurants, I’ll take you to plays, I’ll bring you dusty old books for you to hoard and pretend you’ll ever part with. And I’ll tie pretty knots around you if that’s what you like.”

Aziraphale laughed, pulled away just far enough for their eyes to meet. Crowley held his gaze, almost defiant, as if daring the angel to question his devotion.

Instead, Aziraphale pressed a hand to his cheek and stroked a knife sharp cheekbone.

“We should try again some other time, yes. For now, how about you make us some tea?”

Crowley took the wandering hand in his.

“Anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun story about this prompt is: no one prompted me. Some innocent soul on the server asked for a prompt and had only just had lunch. My thought process went something like this:  
> \- "oh, i ate food w cayenne pepper at lunch at it was WILD imma give this as a food pro-"  
> \- "oh no"  
> \- "THE PROMPT IS MINE"  
> And when I asked the server to prompt me this, specifically, so I could make it official, they laughed to my FACE.
> 
> Also I went into this fic going: ok this time Aziraphale is the one who's going to be tied up and surrender control and need comfort! and then Crowley ended up in his lap and Aziraphale finished the fic (ordering) asking him to make tea. I'm-


End file.
